


In Which Grantire and Enjolras  Fight Over The Insubstantial (And Enjolras Experiences Extreme Guilt)

by Callmeakittenbabe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9851102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeakittenbabe/pseuds/Callmeakittenbabe
Summary: Enjolras can be cruel. Grantaire has a bad history with his family. Jehan is a cinnamon roll and has been 'Taire's friend since they were kids.They called this man, the cynic, in the same fashion, they called the blonde their leader, the revolutionary. Both men, now, belong in equal parts to history as stated by the men who so penned their very existence, for the leader, Enjolras, can not be mentioned without giving insight into his counterpoint, Grantaire.((Set in Cannon Era!))





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! As always everything I write is unbetaed, so I apologize in advance for spelling mistakes! Feel free to comment mistakes!
> 
> Now! Enough with the rambling of the writer. On with the story!

As per usual, the back room of the Cafe Musain, lit in flickering lamplight and full of drifting cigar smoke that had cast a nearly perpetual fog on the room, was full of jubilant chatter and the banter of young students discussing, not the schoolwork and classroom arguments of the boys they had once been, but the tumultuous stirring of the people and the rebellious nature of their own group. 

Sitting beneath a map of France, there was a young man, his face feminine in its youth, though the flush that typically stained his high cheek bones had dissipated in favor of exhaustion; his expression, however, did not lack fondness as he gazed over the gathering of students. His hair, shining in the inconstant light, appeared as strands of pure gold and despite the circles under his piercing blue eyes, his countenance would have put a Greek god to shame.

Unbeknownst to the blonde, across the room, sat another, man, seemingly his polar opposite in every way. His curls were dark, cropped short, but unkempt nonetheless; his complexion was ruddy and his russet eyes bloodshot for lack of sleep. His ill-fitted shirt hung baggy around his arms and his green vest was wrinkled. Yet the corners of his lips were turned up in a roguish smile as he joked with another, waving a bottle of green tinted glass about in an uncoordinated fashion.

They called this man, the cynic, in the same fashion, they called the blonde their leader, the revolutionary. Both men, now, belong in equal parts to history as stated by the men who so penned their very existence, for the leader, Enjolras, can not be mentioned without giving insight into his counterpoint, Grantaire.

The latter, had stumbled unceremoniously to his feet, leaning heavily on the light wood of the table, which tipped dangerously; this coupled with the flush that had risen high on his cheekbones, left no question to the contents of the bottle, though, the members of the little society to which he belonged did question how many bottles full of the potent drink he had consumed. For it was common knowledge among them, that the man drowned himself in alcohol, preferring the burn coupled with the pounding in his head, to the technicalities and pain of everyday life.

“Le despotisme expirera,  
La liberté triomphera,  
Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
Nous n'avons plus ni nobles, ni prêtres,  
Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
L'égalité partout régnera.  
L'esclave autrichien le suivra,  
Au diable s'envolera.  
Ah! ça ira, Ah! ça ira,  
Au diable s'envolera!”

The cry rose from the huddled group of men in the corner, the familiar anthem provoking a scoff from the dark haired man and he lurched forward, hands extended to heaven.

“And who? Pray tell,” He slurred. “Will deliver us from this insanity? What liberty is possessed by that infernal song, to talk of my fate, and of yours! I tell you, comrades, we have seen what devastation revolution brings and we have seen the horrors of tyranny in our own government. I stand for neither, but what can we as students do? What impact do we have? I tell you, all of us will end up as Romeo and Juliet, martyrs for an insubstantial idea!”

He took a breath, and continued, cheeks flushed and eyes wild, as if he were a madman. 

“Comrades, we live, because we were given life. And you live with feeling. As for myself, call me heartless but I believe in nothing except my full glass. Not unconditional love, nor revolution or the government.”

“At peace then, R!” Bahorel boomed over the chaos, a merry smile on his face as he clapped his hand onto the other’s shoulder tightly. “You speak words that are nonsensical even to the wisest of us.”

“Perhaps that is because I am wiser than you lot.” Remarked he with a coy smile, sliding haphazardly into his chair.

Bahorel chuckled lightly. “Perhaps you are, though, I believe you did not have control of your tongue.”

While the others scene was nothing new, it had caught the attention of the blonde, a scowl crossing those lovely lips. As elegantly as a dancer, he rose, through the tremble of his hands was hardly hidden. 

Enjolras didn’t halt until he stood before Grantaire, who addressed him with a rakish smirk. 

“Good day, fearless leader. What brings you to my humble corner? The sense my speech has brought on?”

“Mon Dieu.” The other scoffed. “You disgust me. No one bring an open flame around Grantaire, he is so soaked in alcohol he will light!”

He snatched the bottle, throwing it to the side, where it shattered against the wall, the entire room going silent. 

“You are absolutely insufferable.” He snarled, so close to Grantaire that he could smell the alcohol on his lips.

It was as though the whole assembly was holding their breath. They had never seen their leader so angry, his rage coming in a quiet cutting storm, eyes flashing dangerously.

Grantaire’s heart was racing, eyes wide at the proximity, and the only thought in his foggy mind was about how Enjolras’s lips would feel against his, how his hair would feel in his hands. 

“No.” Said he, looking up at their leader like a puppy who had been kicked from a house into the cold of a Parisian winter. “I am wild.”

His breath hitched at the unexpected smack across the cheek and he squirmed free, bolting unsteadily towards the door, hands slamming against the rough wood, but try as he might, he couldn’t manage the lock on the door. 

A frustrated sob tore from his throat, all thoughts of Enjolras gone, in favor of a large man with a wooden stick, a figure all too familiar to the cynic. 

He let out a broken, almost animalistic sound when a hand was set carefully upon one of his broad shoulder and he doubled over on himself, curling into a ball, face pressed against his knees.

“Hey….Hey.” Soothed a voice, as warm as the fire crackling in the front room and as soft as a rabbit’s pelt, the gentle fingers stroking over his bicep carefully. “Grantaire. ‘Taire, it’s Jehan...Shh...You’re safe.”

He hadn’t realized his own sobs until that moment, the sounds choked, shaking his entire body. 

Eventually, Jehan’s hands were joined by others, as was his voice. Large hands lifted him, perhaps Courfeyrac, and he was carried ever so carefully down the hall, back to the smokey room where the remaining members of the group had arranged a makeshift bed. 

It was agreed, that Jehan, the most gentle of the group, would stay beside him until he woke, for he had known Grantaire before the group had formed and was considered close to the cynic.

Outside the area that had been deemed the cynic’s temporary bed, Combeferre talked in hushed, though harsh tones with the blonde.

“He’s fragile, Enjolras. For lord's sake, you smacked him!”

“He’s a drunkard. I don’t even see why we let him stay among us!”

“He’s loyal.” 

“He’s useless. He believes in nothing.” 

“He’s stated that he believes in you, and what do you do? You dismissed him without a second thought. Give him a chance.”

If looks could kill, Ferre most certainly would have been six feet in the ground.

“I’ve tolerated him. He draws people from our cause, that I will not endure!”

Their voices faded as they strode from the main room, into the recesses of the hall, not wanting to bother the other members of Les Amis.

Jehan sighed slowly, looking at ‘Taire, the way a brother might look upon his sibling, fondly, but not without some frustration. “You are a mess capital R. You’re lucky they love you.”


End file.
